January 1, 2000 to January 1, 2010. It was a long ten years. And sucko.

Wallow with me once more—won’t you?—through an annotated ranking of the lowest of the loathsome, the dankest of the despicable, the most woeful of the worst.

One hundred steps to Hades, spread out over a decade.

Come, now. Again. Then rue … forever.

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60. THE WARRIORS: ULTIMATE DIRECTOR’S CUT DVD
Filmmaker Walter Hill desecrates his surreal gang warfare meistürwürk with MS paint comic book panels which would not be okay, but would be acceptable if the DVD also included the original version.

It does not.

Instead this version, the sole one in print, contains only the cut of The Warriors that includes a grotesque Internet caricature of James Remar as Ajax underscored by the caption: “Holy shit!!! The Baseball Furies!!”

59. Ironically popped collars.

58. Non-ironically popped collars.
57. The lingering, corrosive existence of MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000.
Not to mention human mouths uttering the abbreviation “MST3K” and not being silenced by a hard cock strapped with lit sticks of dynamite.

56. THE ARISTOCRATS (2005)
“Humor, like a frog, can be dissected, but the thing dies in the process.”—E.B. White

59. ALAN BALL and the Pseudo-Indie Cliché: “The only person in town with a brain is 15-years-old!”American Beauty (1999), the first noteworthy shot-across-the-bowels from atypically void-of-imagination homosexualist Alan Ball, kicked off this dung-spawned, decade-enduring trend by garnering Best Original Screenply honors at the 2000 Academy Awards.

In the event that Thora Birch stumping and trumping her ganja-enlightened dad, ice nympho mom, and the Big Tough Military Man Next Door Who Can Not Merely Be a Krypto-Nazi But Must Also Be a Closet-Queerio was not groan-eliciting enough, Ball followed it up on HBO with Six Feet Under.

There, otherwise lovely adolescent Lauren Ambrose not only remained the sole pillar of Human Sense (emboldened, again, by weeeeeeed, man), but at the series’ end, Ball’s ball-free stand-in lives to be a thousand years old and dies the only happy, natural death of any of the characters.

Dope preens eternal.

And then came True Blood and the all-wise, all-compassionate, all-just-oodles-of-gay-yummy Sookie Stackhouse.

The character being somewhere in her 20s can only be attributed to Ball adapting the her from other source material.

For God not only “hates fangs” (again: groan or die), He also knows Ball would have naturally preferred to put himself-as-Sookie in a (junior) prom dress.

Alan: suck more man-joints and less loose joints and try to catch a little whiff of the originality for which we’ve come to rely upon you Hollywood sodomites.

Charlie Bartlett(2007) which recreates Ferris Bueller, the original incarnation of this horribleness, as a JUST ADORABLE medically liberated narcotic-pusher turned priestly (but be sure: strictly multi-denominational) confessor who, during his high-school valedictory speech, assures his fellow minors: “YOU guys have ALL the answers!”

Of course, the most atrocious examples of this tantrum-as-screenwriting (pre-)school are Donnie Darko (2001) and Juno(2007) but, clearly, they each warrant their own individual entries in this piss-party, don’t you think?

I liked “Don’t!” and “Thanksgiving”, though. And Inglourious Basterds is my favorite movie of the 2000s. So … that’s something.

53. “GAY MARRY” as a verb. As employed by people who are not nearly cool enough to have ever actually gone homo even for a minute.

Still, these Upstanding Citizens need you to know they’re “fightin’ the power” by using the term “gay marry” as a verb, as in:

“I support gay marriage and if you don’t, don’t get one, and if I was going to get one, I’d GAY MARRY [some same-gender celebrity you’ve been instructed to think is hot]! Haw-haw-haw! Love and admire and fake laugh with me, please, please, won’t you?!”

52. GOSSIP GIRL.
We exist today in a horrible through-the-looking-glass milieu wherein the admirably hairy values of the 1970s (a period that extends from 1973 all the way to the end of 1982) have been directly reversed, inverted, and turned upside down.

And the simps just go along, none the wiser, all the suckier.

I refer to our present reality in which the Omegas are the Good Guys of Animal House (1978) and the battle cry of Caddyshack (1980)—“It’s the slobs against the snobs!”—holds hard, but now one is expected to root for (and want to be) the latter of those combatants.

No locale more disgustingly crystallizes this notion than 21st century Manhattan, where puffed-up cretins reflexively revile Mayor Rudolf Giuliani while only being able to exist in the present incarnation of New York City made possible by Mayor Rudolf Giuliani.

I grew up in scary, scummy NYC of the ’70s and ’80s, punctuated by the absolute unlivable madness of the Dinkins administration.

For what subsequently flooded every Gotham sidewalk crevice was a tidal wave of supermodels, vaginas-on-sticks who want to be supermodels, and testes-free femme-men aiming to be real GUUUUUUUY’S GUUUUUUYS by poking their wee peenies in the direction of supermodels.

The movie stars followed. And the “celebrity” anti-entities. And then the Retroactive Abortions That Should Be who give ALL their fucks about such pustules.

Suddenly, my beloved New York Post, legendary purveyor of the “Headless Body in Topless Bar” screamer headline, became a mere wrapper for its vile Page Six.

And so the New York City that spawned The Dictatorsand Ramones and Sleazoid Express and Gore Gazette and, for fuck’s sake, HAPPYLAND gave way to the New York City of Sex and the City and Perez Hilton and The Strokes and “The Hahhhmptons” and, for feces’ sake, Gossip Girl.

Back in the good old, horrific old days, the post-nuke, neo-barbarian future of the five boroughs predicted by myriad Italian Mad Maxrip-offs on the order of 1990: The Bronx Warriors (1982) and After the Fall of New York (1983) positively pulsated with homicidal hatred of uptown elites—and I do mean positively.

Desire to don warpaint and storm Park Avenue castles with mass murder in mind, to force fornication upon and sexually enslave any slattern that dare deign itself “fashionista,” to firebomb Fifth Avenue preparatory academies, to thunder real pain and real sorrow and real fatality upon the real-life gargoyles who inspire Gossip Girl’s televised archetypes—that is healthy, that is proper, that is what it means to be a from New York City. From it, and of it.

So for anyone to be a Gossip Girl enthusiast means that he deserves the fates described above, too. Even more. Even worse. And, let’s hope, soon.

Thirty years of vampiric scammery and garnering the love of liars led to Kim Gordon and the other broad in Sonic Youth (the gorky tall twat who pretends to play guitar) guesting on—where else?—Gossip Girl.